The Blacksheep's Arranged Marriage. Karen Toller Whittenburg
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her wise counsel. “Some day, Peter,” she’d said. “You’ll meet the woman who will be your wife and you’ll realize that her opinion of you truly matters. This is not that day, so stop worrying, relax and simply do your best to have a good time.”
Well, today was not that day, either. And with the thought, he offered Davinia Carey a warm and kindly smile. “I’ve never been to your home before,” he said easily. “Grace Place is an impressive estate.”
“It’s nothing to what it was when I was Thea’s age. This house is not as old as Braddock Hall, but my great-great-grandfather, Davis Madison Grace, spared no expense in building it.”
Which didn’t keep it from looking like a very poor relation now, Peter thought but didn’t, of course, say aloud. “I believe Grandfather mentioned this was your childhood home.”
The sniff again. This time expressing nostalgia, perhaps, or some old regret for days gone by. “My coming-out ball was as grand as any party ever given at The Breakers, I can assure you. Ask your grandfather. He’ll remember.” She paused, her eyes narrowing on him. “Grace Place will belong to Theadosia one day.”
He didn’t know quite how to respond to that, but she seemed to expect a reply, so he said, “Lucky Thea.”
“Luck has nothing whatsoever to do with it, Peter. She was born an heiress.”
The slight stress on the word was, he felt, not only intentional but intended to remind him that he hadn’t inherited the Braddock name and its privileges at birth. He had, in fact, spent the first nine years of his life believing he was the son of another man, a poor man, and hadn’t even been acknowledged as a Braddock until he was nine. A lot of people knew that. It wasn’t exactly a secret. But no one had ever pointed it out to him in such a coldly calculating way. Davinia Grace Carey was telling him he was not good enough for her granddaughter and it was all Peter could do not to challenge her on it. As if Thea had suitors climbing the walls of this monstrous old house in the hope of winning her heart. Or at least her fortune.
He held the old woman’s gaze and didn’t politely look away when it grew uncomfortable. “As I said before, lucky Thea.”
She drew herself up at that and a haughty smile curved along her thin lips, making her look even more like a spider in no particular hurry to immobilize her prey. “I see that we understand each other, Peter. I’m not sure what Archer had in mind in setting up this assignation between you and Thea. Do you know?”
Peter breathed deeply to maintain his composure. “I believe he hoped we would have a pleasant evening.”
“Be that as it may, Thea has been brought up as a lady and I do expect you to treat her as such. You will have her home at a reasonable hour. Not a moment past midnight, and in the same virtuous condition as when she walks out the door with you.”
It was becoming very clear why Theadosia Berenson attended social functions alone or accompanied by this harridan of a chaperone. Peter resolved then and there that tonight he would keep Thea out at least five moments past midnight, even if he was so bored by that time the seconds dripped like molasses. “I assure you, Mrs. Carey, my grandmother taught me to be a gentleman at all times, even under the most tempting of circumstances. Believe me, there’s no need for you to worry. Thea will be perfectly safe with me.”
Davinia frowned at him, obviously unconvinced of his sincerity, but then her gaze went past him to the doorway. “Theadosia,” she said. “Come in. How many times do I have to remind you it’s not polite for a lady to hover in a doorway? Come in, come in.” She extended a veiny hand. “You look lovely, dear. Doesn’t she, Peter?”
Lovely wasn’t the word for it. Thea looked bedraggled and miserably self-conscious. Her dress fit badly, at best, and covered her from high neck to midcalf in a dreary beige. Her hair was its normal mousey-brown, and looped haphazardly into a frazzled topknot that already showed signs of slip-sliding toward her left ear. The double strand of pearls she wore was too long to be stylish and too big to be simply a nice touch. Matching pearl earrings, too large for her pointy little face, studded her earlobes and were all but lost behind the black-frame glasses that sat halfway down her nose, which obscured her thick-lashed and luminous eyes. Neither jewelry nor glasses did anything to enhance her overall appearance. But if lying to a lady wasn’t in any Gentleman’s Handbook, diplomacy certainly was.
Peter rose instantly to his feet and offered her a warmly approving smile. “Hello, Thea,” he said. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. I’ve been looking forward to this evening for days.”
She ducked her head and said, “Hello, Peter,” in a voice so soft it practically evaporated on contact with the air.
“Stand up straight,” Davinia commanded and Thea straightened like a marionette. “Remember who you are, tonight, Theadosia. Peter has assured me he will take very good care of you.”
For a second, Peter caught a glimpse of life in the eyes behind the heavy-rimmed glasses, a flicker of amusement as out of place in Thea’s brown eyes as the ray of sunlight tentatively creeping in through a crack in the draperies. “Okay,” Thea said in her meek and whispery voice and he decided all he’d seen was a reflection in the lens of her glasses.
“Shall we go?” He was suddenly anxious to get her outside, away from the gloom and suffocating presence of her grandmother, away from the weight of expectations that seemed to press down about them from all directions. “I put the top up on the car so your hair won’t get blown all out of…place.” He paused, wishing he’d left the top down. She might like to have the wind blowing through her hair for a change, and it wasn’t as if her hairstyle relied much on staying in place as it was. “But if you’d prefer, I can put it down again.”
“Certainly not,” Davinia said firmly. “I’ve never understood why anyone would have one of those convertibles in the first place. They’re dangerous and I can assure you, Peter, that Thea does not wish to arrive anywhere, particularly at a formal affair, looking as if she’s had her head in a wind tunnel.”
Peter thought she might prefer that to looking as if she’d combed her hair with an egg beater, but since Thea didn’t contradict her grandmother, he didn’t think it was his place to step in and do it. Gentlemen, as a general rule, minded their own business.
He started to take Thea’s elbow, but thought that if she didn’t faint from nervousness at his touch, her grandmother might slap his hand with a ruler and remind him that a gentleman never touched a lady without permission. He hedged his bets by moving to the doorway and sort of urging Thea along by example. “Good evening, Mrs. Carey,” he said.
“I do hope you have an enjoyable evening,” the old woman called after them.
But Peter was almost positive she didn’t mean a word of it.
Chapter Two
“Would you like something else to drink?” Peter asked as considerately as if it were the first time he’d posed a similar question instead of the eleventh or twelfth. “More punch, maybe? Or a soda?”
Thea tried to think of a witty reply, some way of refusing his offer that wouldn’t be completely flat and uninteresting. Peter had been so nice, had tried so hard, right from the minute he’d opened the door of his car for her and offered for the second time to put down the convertible’s top. She’d wanted to flash a saucy smile and say, “Yes, please, I love the feel of the wind in my hair. I’ve always thought I’d enjoy driving a convertible. What about letting me test-drive this one? I promise I’ll pay for the speeding ticket, if we get caught.”
But she hadn’t said that. Not even close. She’d mumbled a simple, “No, thank you,” which had pretty much been the extent of her contribution to the conversation throughout the evening, with the occasional “Yes, thank you,” thrown in for variety.
“Would you like to sit here?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Shall